


Changes

by Crysania



Series: Ambiguously Gay Rumple [5]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 04:11:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4773014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crysania/pseuds/Crysania
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt from tinuviel-undomiel:  I was thinking of how Belle thought Rumple was gay. She doesn't find out he's not gay until she has to bathe him (maybe he's hurt?) and she feels his...rather large estate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Changes

She’s never seen Rumplestiltskin come home in such a state before. He’s come home exhausted. He’s even come home covered in the blood of some beast he would not say more than two words about. He’s come home triumphant and angry and annoyed. But never has he come home _hurt_. And this shocks her. Shocks her to her very core. If the Dark One can be injured, can he be killed? Could she end up left alone in his big dusty castle? There’s gold enough for years stored up there, but she doesn’t know what will become of it, how much of it was held together with magic and how much had been there to start with.

She doesn’t want to find herself suddenly standing in the middle of a snow-choked field or, worse, with the castle crumbling about her ears.

And if she is completely honest with herself, she doesn’t really want to lose Rumplestiltskin’s companionship. She has come to be… _fond_ …of him. He’s odd. Not just to look at. But in personality too. He speaks in riddles more often than not, uses wild gestures with hands flailing when speaking to her, wears tight leather pants that sometime make her blush to look at. There’s something _different_ about Rumplestiltskin and if there’s one thing Belle likes, it’s different.

And so they’ve become friends. Of sorts at least. She fancies more in her darkest moments but she knows that cannot be. She’s seen him with the equally flamboyant Jefferson. She’s noticed that he pays no mind to her cleavage-baring outfits. In fact, he’s given her outfits that _hide_ said cleavage. Serviceable outfits that cover her well enough while still allowing her to feel feminine. He dresses her with a flamboyant wave of his hand and giggles.

She doesn’t forget the way his eyes met hers when he first set eyes on her and that those eyes did not stray any lower. Not like the soldiers. Not like Gaston, who never did seem to focus on her face when speaking to her. Rumplestiltskin had met her eyes and never once seemed tempted to ogle her.

She thinks she has that figured out why. She thinks she knows why he hides in his castle and only goes out to make his deals.

And she’s fine with that.

Not that she’s ever told him so. She finds it a strange thing to bring up. _I know you prefer men to women and that’s alright_. So she stays quiet and smiles when the pair of them go off to his tower together. He seems happy. At least when they’re not bickering. And she supposes his happiness is more important than her comfort or her words or her being able to tell him she _knows_ the truth about him.

But today he looks decidedly _not_ happy. When he trudges into the main room, he staggers just slightly. It’s the first hint that there is _something wrong_. Something more serious than simply being disheveled.

“Rumplestiltskin?” she asks as she rushes to his side. Her hand is on his arm before she can help herself.

He snarls something incoherent at her and tries to pull away. He’s successful only for a moment.

“What happened to you?” Her voice is laced with concern. And not just for what it might mean if he dropped dead at her feet. Concern for him. For any potential pain. For any… “What did you say?”

He mutters the word again and she just stares at him.

"Did you say 'fairies'?" She can't have heard that right. Fairies were good, kind, not the sort who left the Dark One in tatters. There's blood dripping down the side of his face, caked in his hair. She's sure that it's _his_ blood this time.

"Yes." The word is snapped at her but even that doesn't make her step back or worry. Or anything really. Rumplestiltskin's bark has always been worse than his bite. She's used to it by now. After all, a man who keeps so many secrets from the world and yet shows his true nature to her cannot be as bad as people truly think he is.

She holds up her hands. "I won't ask anymore."

"See that you don't." He turns to walk away then. Which would have been the end of it had he not immediately stumbled and dropped to his knees.

"Rumple…" She doesn't even get his full name out before she's at his side and kneeling at his side. He's awake and she watches as he shakes himself.

"I'm fine," he mutters.

"You're not," she counters with and reaches out a hand to briefly touch his arm. She can see where his shirt is torn, the deep gash beneath it still seeping with blood. "You're _hurt_."

"I'm fine," he says again. But the words are quieter and she knows _he_ knows he's not.

She watches him for a moment and then stands. "I'll just leave you to your…well…to whatever it is you do."

"Good then," he says and his voice is still just a little bit weaker than usual.

She turns away from him, walks a couple steps and then hears a few scuffles as he shifts around. She smiles as she hears him grumble. "I'm sorry. Did you say something?" She only half glances over her shoulder, but he's where she left him when she walked off. And he's watching her with eyes squinted half shut. She knows he damn well won't ask for her help even if he is somewhat worse for the wear. _Fairies_. He says the word like it's a curse and perhaps it is to him if they can do this to him.

His next words are inaudible and she sighs.

"Perhaps a hot bath will help you feel better?"

His unnaturally large eyes close once and then open. Slowly. "Yes," he finally manages to get out. "Yes a hot bath might help."

She watches for a moment as he struggles to stand and then, with a sigh more befitting an annoyed wife than a maid of a handful of months, she walks over and holds out an arm for him to use to leverage himself to his feet. He sneers at her. Of course he does. "Just take it." He tries to push himself up on his own and finally concedes, allowing her to pull him to his feet.

They walk together, a slow procession. Belle is not very strong. Spending most of one's time reading will lend you to a certain lack of fitness. Not that she's a large woman. No, quite the contrary, she's quite tiny. _Too_ tiny. And Rumplestiltskin moves as if his body is made of lead, each step making the floor vibrate slightly.

It takes a long time to get to the bathing room and it’s probably halfway through that long walk when Belle realizes he’s going to need _help_. He can’t bathe himself. He can barely lift his arms up, can barely keep his eyes focused on the floor as he staggers his way down the hallway. Only her arms and the wall he occasionally collides with keeps him on his feet.

It’s no matter though.

It’s not like she hasn’t seen, well, _some_ of it before. She’s been through a war after all, tended to soldiers in various states of dress and undress. She can handle Rumplestiltskin in his bath. Bubbles ought to hide most of it, retaining some sort of modesty for the sorcerer.

When they arrive in the room, he simply stops and stares at the tub. It’s already filled with water, steaming. “Bubbles?” he says.

“Well, yes.” She looks away from him for a moment. The castle had an uncanny knack of reading her mind.

“Ah, right,” he finally says in answer.

“Should I call for Jefferson?” The words come tumbling out. Jefferson would be easier. He’s no doubt comfortable with Jefferson, comfortable with his hands on him, comfortable with being _seen_ by him.

But the look he gives her, eyes wide and unblinking, gives her pause. “Oh Gods no. Please.”

He won’t want his lover to see him this way. She nods. It makes sense, though really if you cannot be seen in such a vulnerable state in front of the one you love what are they truly to you? True love, in all its strange and otherworldly forms, ought to involve some sort of vulnerability. Perhaps they aren’t true love then. Maybe just a passing fancy. They’re together so often that she’s thought there must be more than some silly flirtations and whatever it is they do when they disappear for hours together. But perhaps she’s wrong on that.

Either way, Jefferson has been there and she has not and she was sure that would have made him feel at least a little on edge.

“Do you…” Gods, how _does_ one ask the most powerful sorcerer in all the land if he needs help undressing?

“Yes.” The word rushes out of his mouth, more a hiss than a spoken word. “Please,” he adds and there’s almost a whimper there behind the word.

“Alright.” She steels herself.

They’ll laugh about this in the morning.

She’s sure of it.

Well, maybe not so sure. But she hopes at least. _Remember that time you had to undress me? Oh Gods wasn’t that hilarious?_

The first to go is the dragonhide coat. She notices, as it falls to the floor, that the spikes are tipped in something dark. Blood she suspects. But it’s the slight glittery look to them that gives her a moment’s pause.

“Fairies,” he mutters. She’s really never heard the word uttered with such disdain before. And truth be told it makes her laugh. Her people revered the fairies, called on them in their time of need, wished up on a star and all that. Belle always found them a little sanctimonious and often wondered just how far their powers took them. They couldn’t, after all, help rid her village of the ogres. It took a deal with the Dark One to do that.

A deal she isn’t really sure she regrets. Oh, she misses her family, her friends. But this is the adventure she had always hoped for.

Well, maybe not _this_ exactly. Stripping down the Dark One when he can barely stand, is in fact leaning rather heavily on her and getting increasingly bleary-eyed as the moments pass, is not quite what she imagined. But caretaker she agreed to be and caretaker she _will_ be.

“Alright, off with this vest.” He nods as she moves her hands to the buttons. She tries to ignore how they shake just slightly. He’s close. So very close. And in different circumstances this might very well be the prelude to something rather more intimate.

The vest is divested of quickly, tossed aside and for a moment she watches him stare at it. Almost glare. She’s sure she sees a bit of heightened color on his cheekbones. This close, his skin doesn’t look nearly so rough and she finds she wants to reach up and touch his cheek, feel the texture. She wonders. More than she should considering…well, considering _everything_. He’s the Dark One. And he has Jefferson. And she should be ashamed of her curiosity and yet isn’t at the same time.

"The shirt?" she asks and her voice is far quieter than she had planned it to be. He nods and she can't help noticing the way he looks away. There's a not quite grimace on his face and she realizes he hates this. _Hates_ it. He's vulnerable before someone who is not his lover, vulnerable before someone who is stripping him as only a lover should and yet is just his maid. "I'm sorry," she murmurs before reaching up with somewhat unsteady hands to undo the first button.

Each comes apart slowly. Her hands are stiff, uncertain. The skin on his chest is as oddly colored as his hands and face and she finds she cannot help but brush a finger lightly against it as she undoes each button. It's rough, but softer than she expected. When the shirt comes completely undone and her hand brushes across his belly, oddly smoother than his chest and completely hairless, she feels him quiver a little. It's a small movement. Almost imperceptible. "I'm sorry," she says again and he shakes his head.

"I can take care of the rest." He speaks softly and she turns away from him as she hears him divest himself of his trousers and boots. He almost falls once. She's sure of it. She can hear him hit the tub rather heavily and she almost turns. Almost. But she isn't quite sure she should. She doesn't know how modest he is, if he cares about such things. The soldiers used to like to show off, strutting around without a stitch on as if everyone should stop to admire them.

But something tells her Rumplestiltskin is different. And so she waits until she hears him settle in the water, knowing the bubbles will hide those things he would want to have hidden. Not that she would have looked.

If she were to be totally honest with herself, she probably would have.

Her father did once tell her that her curiosity was likely to get her into serious trouble someday.

"Are…are you set?"

"Yes." His voice is quiet, almost faint as he speaks and she finally dares to turn around.

He's settled deep in the tub, though his head and shoulders are still above the bubbles. The Dark One. Naked in his tub. Oh, to be able to tell her governess _this_. She imagines the woman would faint dead away.

"Good. Then…" She doesn't quite know what to say and so instead picks up the bar of soap and dips it in the water. Hair first, she realizes, as she notices his already unruly hair has stuck to the sides of his face. There's blood encrusted in it and she doesn't dare ask _whose_ blood it is. She suspect it's his own. His weakness, the bit of disorientation. He's hurt far worse than he will readily admit.

And so she gently scoops water over his hair, tells him to lean back, and then sets to soaping it. It's not easy. The blood has made it sticky and tangled and the natural curl makes it even more difficult. But he says nothing, just grunt a few times when her fingers hit a snag, and he allows her to finish cleaning his hair in silence.

He dips under the water when she's got it lathered up and comes up spluttering a bit, shakes his head. Like a dog. He looks vulnerable with his hair wet and lank across his cheek bones. And when he leans back against the tub, eyes shut, she sees the lines between his browns deepen, sees the way his mouth turns down for just a moment. He's uncomfortable, unhappy. She doesn't know how to make it any better for him.

Maybe she should call for Jefferson, even though he already told her no. She knows he communicates with him through mirrors. If she could figure out how to work them…

But no. She has to admit to herself that she doesn't _want_ Jefferson there. And that worries her. She should not be thinking such thoughts.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs again. She's not sure what else to say.

One of his eyes cracks open and attempts to focus on her. "Just get on with it," he mutters.

"Of course." She grabs the bar of soap again, lathering up the cloth and hesitating for just a moment before she brings it to his shoulders. Shoulders are safe. And they’re covered in _something_. That same weird glitter that was on his coat. It seems to have seeped through the layers and into his skin. She scrubs but only gets a minimal amount off. He groans slightly under the pressure. “Does this hurt?”

“Yes,” he says and she can hear the slight edge to his voice. She starts to apologize but he holds up a hand. “It’s not your fault.”

She nods. Of course. It’s the fairies. The dust that has settled onto him, seeped into his pores. She supposes that the light magic of the fairies does not mix so well with the darkness of his own magic, perhaps the darkness that is deep within him. For she’s sure it’s buried inside him, a sort of thorn that he cannot loosen, even if he wanted to.

The hand with the cloth dips back into the water, runs along his chest and across his collar bones. They stick out just a little too far and she’s left wondering, for perhaps the tenth or hundredth or even thousandth time, if he eats enough. Or at all. Though she does see that her tea cakes have disappeared every time she drops off a plate of them in his tower.

He lets out a small sound and for the first time since he stumbled in the door, he almost sounds…content? She’s afraid he might begin to purr if she continues. Yet she does. The glitter is starting to float away, sliding away from his skin and being carried across on the bubbles. The whole bath almost seems to glow as she continues her ministrations.

She allows the cloth to dip lower and once…just once…allows her hand to come in contact with his skin. She’s wondered how it would feel under her hand. She doesn’t admit that often, not even to herself, but she has. And so she lets a finger brush lightly across him. It’s easier if it seems like it was an accident.

She’s surprised to hear him suck in a breath at the contact and her eyes flash to his for just a moment. He looks away quickly. “I know this is embarrassing,” she murmurs. He nods. “I could get Jefferson…” She lets the words trail off and watches as his eyes shift back to hers before shutting.

“Please don’t.” The lines deepen around his mouth.

Of course, she realizes. He wouldn’t want him there, to see him like this. In front of his maid, in front of the _help_ , as he so often reminds her, he can be vulnerable. Who would believe her, after all, if she told them the Dark One could be so easily taken down by fairy dust? And so she's easy. In this way at least.

She nods even though his eyes are closed and she knows he can't see her.

She worries about him, though she knows she shouldn't, and sets to her task again, dipping the cloth into the water and running it roughly over the skin of his chest, his abdomen. As she pushes it lower, her hand disappearing beneath the bubbles, she brushes again something.

Something hard.

She pulls back but then cannot stop herself as she reaches back into the water to try to find it. And then her hand closes on it. And it takes her a moment…just a moment really, though it feels like it must be hours that she sits there holding it. Holding _him_.

He finally lets out a strange noise, halfway between a gasp and a choking sound, strangled in the back of his throat somewhere.

She lets him go, her hand suddenly flying up out of the water as she backs away from him. “Oh Gods,” she mutters. She doesn’t know what else to say really. But her mouth, which her father always warned her would get her in trouble someday, just won’t stop. “I didn’t…I wasn’t intending to…”

She covers her face with one hand. She knows she’s all red. And Rumplestiltskin will _not_ stop staring at her. He looks like a frightened cat backed into a corner. His hands are gripping the tub, _hard_ , and his eyes are wide open, eyebrows up, mouth half open. He says nothing. Well, he tries to speak. His mouth opens at least. But nothing comes out save a tiny squeak. She's never heard such a thing from him before and so _she_ stares at _him_ for a moment.

"Oh Gods," she repeats. "It's just…It's normal I hear."

"Normal," he repeats, almost stupidly.

"Yes." She's trying to rationalize her way through. "The body's natural reaction?"

"Yes," he responds with and she notices the color high on his cheeks that wasn't there before.

"Totally normal. Yes. _Normal_ ," she reiterates. "Normal." She doesn't even know what she's saying. She's babbling, she realizes. But her hand can still feel _him_ and she can't stop it, can't stop her hand from clenching once or twice, remembering that hot, hard feel of him in the palm of her hand. "It doesn't mean anything." But it does. To her at least. Not to him. Never to him.

"No." The word _almost_ sounds like a question.

"I won't tell Jefferson." The words come out in a rush. It wasn’t an indiscretion exactly. It wasn't intended, just the body's response to touch. Sometimes it cannot be prevented.

"You won't…" He blinks then, those great big almost reptilian eyes of his closing once and then twice. “Jefferson?” She watches as the lines between his brows deepen, his mouth turning down just slightly as if the word conjures the sourness of a lemon.

“I promise.” She feels frantic now. He’s staring at her with this mixture of alarm and horror and she doesn’t know how to make stop. “He never has to know.”

He shakes his head then, hard, like a dog shaking off tension. “Why would Jefferson even care?”

“Because you and he…” She can’t quite finish the words. _Because you’re…lovers? Something? I don’t even know what anymore_.

"He and I…" Rumplestiltskin's voice trails off and his eyes seem to unfocus for a moment. "He and I…" And then his eyes brighten, sharpen, and snap to hers. "He and I? No." His hand comes up and slices through the air.

"What?"

"You thought Jefferson and I were…" She watches as he chokes the next word off, like he can't quite fathom exactly what he's about to say.

"You…" It's her turn to blink. "You're not?"

"No," he answers with quickly.

She feels the world turn on its axis. "Then if you're not together, this…" She can’t finish the sentence. She’s afraid of it, she realizes. If she says it out loud it makes it _real_. It changes _everything_. And she doesn’t know if she’s ready for everything to change just yet.

But he answers her question anyway. And his voice is quiet, subdued. It lacks the usual high-pitched giggle, the sharpness of his angry bluster. It barely sounds like him. “Yes.” It’s just one word and her eyes meet his and she can feel the heat creep up her cheeks as she sees it creep up his.

“Oh Gods,” she murmurs. She doesn’t know what else to say.

He raises his hand, quickly. She knows what he’s thinking. He’s going to magic himself right out of the situation and leave her leaning half flustered over an empty tub. But she can’t. She knows that. They’ve broached this subject and she never quite realized how heavily it hung over their heads. She had ignored it. After all, he had Jefferson. But now it starts to all make sense.

He hurries Jefferson away, not because they’re leaving for a tryst but because he’s afraid of what the other man might say.

He throws fits at her when Jefferson is there, not because he wants the man to know she’s nothing to him, but because he wants him to _think_ she’s nothing to him.

And Jefferson’s smile are not indulgent. They’re _knowing_. He knows, the ridiculous fool, and so he grins and preens and no doubt forces the rushing off that Rumplestiltskin always does.

So she grabs his wrist and stops him before he can make that familiar gesture that either puts him out of her grasp or sends her off someplace. Like her room or the laundry lines or once even the duck pond. Though he swears that was an accident and that if she weren't so damned _distracting_ he would have magicked her to where he had intended, thank you very much.

"Do you…" She starts to ask a question. _Some_ question. She's not even sure what she wants to ask right now. _Do you want me to…continue? Disappear? Leave and never ever come back?_

He stares at her and his eyes are wide and almost haunted. He inclines his head. Just an inch. Maybe less. A motion that is almost imperceptible, except that Belle is studying him so closely that she sees it, sees the way his eyes shut right after he makes the motion. As if he's embarrassed and hoping that she'll simply release his wrist and let him disappear as he intended in the first place.

But she doesn't.

Well, she releases his wrist and for a moment she's afraid he'll fade into nothing before she can do anything else. But he doesn't. He sits in the tub, tense, waiting. And then she plunges her hand back into the water and finds him again.

He's hard in her hand. Hard and thick. He lets out a hiss through clenched teeth, his hands coming to rest on the sides of the tub, knuckles almost white. She watches him for a moment, doesn’t move. He looks almost pained but then she moves her hand, just a tiny bit, and his mouth opens slightly and she’s sure this is that sort of pleasure-pain that such things cause.

She knows.

She’s felt it herself in the dark of night as she thinks of things she’s told she shouldn’t and wonders what Rumplestiltskin’s rough skin would feel like against her own. Thoughts that she entertains and quickly discards.

Except now.

She moves her hand. An experiment. She’s never done this before but she knows this is the center of his pleasure and so she wraps her hand around it and tugs upward a little bit. He groans. “Not so tight,” he murmurs and she feels the blush creep up her cheeks.

“Sorry.”

“No.” He shakes his head but doesn’t open his eyes. “No apologies.”

She takes a deep breath. “Right.” She moves her hand again, her touch lighter. He plunges his hand into the water, wraps his fingers around hers and pulls her hand with him. Stroking him. They’re moving in concert and she can see his hips moving just a little bit in time with the strokes.

“Like this.”

“Yes,” she answers with, though she has no need to really say anything. He releases her hand then, puts it back on the edge of the tub. She keeps moving her hand and when his hips thrust forward a little harder, she tightens her grip. Just a little. She doesn’t want to hurt him. She just wants to…increase the pressure a little bit.

His answering moan, the way his eyes open into slits for just a moment before rolling back into his head, tell her that she’s done the right thing.

It takes little time to fall into a rhythm, his hips rising into her hand, her hand gripping him light enough for pleasure but hard enough for him to thrust into. She’s fascinated by the way the muscles of his chest move as he thrusts into her hand, the way the vein stands out on his forehead, how his hands continue occasionally rise as if he wants to grasp something, before falling back to their tight grip on the tub.

She’s simply fascinated by everything.

She’s never seen any man like this. And never thought she’d see the Dark One like this. Undone. His hair wet and messy, his eyes closed, mouth open. He lets out more sounds, moans, once something that she’s sure is a curse word but is cut off by a groan. His hips move in concert with her hand and then break rhythm, his hands gripping harder on the tub.

And then he stiffens, lets out a loud groan, and she feels the heat of him as he lets go. She doesn’t look, not down at where her hand is. She watches his face. She finds that more captivating, seeing the way the muscles tense in his shoulders, the way his face tightens and his eyes seem to roll up behind closed eyelids. It’s strange, really, how the look of ecstasy, for she’s sure that's what it is, so closely mirrors intense pain. Just for that one small moment. And then his face goes slack, he lets out a grunt as his hips hit the bottom of the tub, and she can feel him start to go soft in her hand.

She releases him then, but leaves her hand in the quickly cooling tub, lets the water wash some of the stickiness away.

Rumplestiltskin says nothing for a moment, remains still. But then his eyes open and focus on her. “Belle,” he murmurs, like he somehow didn’t expect her to be there, like he expected to open this eyes and find himself alone in the tub, his own hand on himself.

She doesn’t know what to say and so smiles, bites her lip.

 _Well, this is awkward_ …

One hour ago she thought he was involved in an illicit love affair with the Mad Hatter. And now this…

“You…” he starts to say. One hand comes up and wipes at the lock of hair that’s fallen across his face.

“Yes?” she responds with. He says nothing else for a moment and so Belle takes a deep breath and stands. Her legs feel wobbly and she grips the tub for a moment before she steadies herself. Rumplestiltskin doesn’t answer. He’s still staring at her as if he expects her to disappear into thin air at any moment. “We should probably talk sometime.”

“I…yes…”

She gives him a soft smile. “Perhaps about reciprocation?”

“About…” She watches as he swallows hard.

“Yes. Perhaps.” And then she takes her leave. There’s no sense pushing things. She’s sure that he’s still in shock and probably needs some time to recover. So she flits from the room with a grin on her face and a spring in her step.

And maybe some thoughts about retreating to her _own_ room. There are…things…she probably should take care of.

When she enters the main hall, she sees Jefferson just walking in, top hat swinging in his hands. Rumplestiltskin gets annoyed if he keeps the hat on in the castle. It’s a strange bit of etiquette he insists on. Shoes are fine. Hats are not. And so Jefferson does always mind his manners for fear he may end up magicked into a tree or lose the hat to a dragon that Rumplestiltskin makes appear.

“Belle, my dear!” he says when he sees her.

“Jefferson!” Laughter bubbles up inside her as she says the name.

“Where is he?” he asks.

“He’s in his bath.” She waves her hand back the way she’s just come from and smirks. She can’t help it. _Things have changed_.

Jefferson starts to walk in that direction, but then spins on his heel, turning back to face her. “You _did it_.” The words sound almost accusatory, but she sees the humor behind them. Humor and astonishment.

Belle just laughs and watches as the man suddenly turns to rush off. It’s only moments later when she hears Rumplestiltskin incoherent roar and Jefferson’s answering laughter.

She laughs as she rushes up the stairs, the sounds of Rumplestiltskin’s peevish anger and Jefferson’s loud guffaws chasing her all the way to her bedroom.

Oh yes. Things have changed, indeed.


End file.
